


On Necessity, Invention, and Alcohol

by LadyMerlin



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Based on a Tumblr Post, Crack, Humour, Moonshine, Sarcasm, mentions of background Kirk/Spock, post-STXI, the infamous Enterprise Still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: In Scotty’s defence, he hadn’t actually known that he was sharing a bathroom with McCoy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In my defence, I was tipsy while writing this. I'm still tipsy. I make no other excuses. 
> 
> Inspired by [this post](http://swingsetindecember.tumblr.com/post/151794811487/sadieyuki-1701enterprise-why-dont-we-talk-about) on tumblr.

On the first day - or at least, the first actual Alpha shift after the Narada shitstorm - there was a lot of screaming when Scotty walked into the shared bathroom half-way through McCoy’s shower.  

A lot. of. screaming. 

McCoy may or may not have brained Scotty with a bar of soap, but no one was admitting anything. One more bruise among a hundred didn’t make a difference, and ‘do no harm’ didn’t preclude self-defence (according to McCoy, anyway).

Once the screaming had died down (and Scotty had been revived, thanks to the expertise of the no-longer-pantsless medical personnel on-hand), they’d talked extensively about getting another en suite commissioned for either one of them. Surely Command would see that they needed separate bathrooms, as they were no longer college students living in a shitty shared dorm. _Surely_ risking their lives on an almost-daily basis for the betterment of the Federation merited a slight measure of consideration and dignity.  

(That was before either one of them took into account ‘Fleet politics)

But neither one of them ever did anything about it, beyond the talking. Things got busy. Really busy. 

As the flagship, the Enterprise was constantly being sent out on missions, both milk-runs and otherwise. Because it was a truth universally known that James T. Kirk was a shit magnet, only a tiny percentage of those missions went smoothly.  _Most_ of them ended with blood and screaming and death and miraculous escapes at the very last minute, and more grey hairs for everyone involved.  

(McCoy had discreetly enquired about hair-dye on one of the shore-leave planets. Jim hadn’t let him hear the end of it.)

_All_ missions ended with significant amounts of drinking. McCoy reckoned he wouldn’t live long enough to suffer catastrophic liver failure anyway, so it hardly mattered.

Both McCoy and Scotty made do with their own meager stashes of scrounged alcohol in their own rooms, not realizing that they were only separated from true greatness (and a rapid descent into alcoholism) by the narrow width of their shared bathroom. 

Until one day, McCoy came across Jim and Spock making out in an abandoned rec room, and Scotty discovered that Keenser had beaten his record for the most number of destroyed laws-of-physics. 

“Do you have alcohol.” McCoy didn’t ask. It wasn’t a question. He needed to bleach away the images behind his eyelids if it was the last thing he did. Manners would have to wait.

“Nae, Doctor. No’ much. Unless ye be willin’ to drink the replicated shite.” (Scotty had, though he wasn’t going to admit it, already made healthy inroads into his own alcohol stash - which was why he didn’t have much left.)

“It’ll do. I’m drinking till I go blind tonight. Join me?” 

“Aye.” 

Fifteen minutes of silent revulsion later (the replicated shite was just that - _shite_ ); “Ye know, I think I’d be able to make better moonshine m’self.” 

“So could I. My nan could make better moonshine, and she’s been dead since I was fifteen.” They took a moment to reminisce wordlessly over their surprisingly-similar childhoods.

Scotty contemplated asking McCoy what exactly he’d seen that he wished he hadn’t, but decided that discretion was the better part of valour. Also he didn’t really want to know what had grossed a man out, who spent the better part of his time wrist deep in other peoples’ guts and gore.

“The problem is space.” 

“What,  _Space_ ,” McCoy gestured vaguely with his empty cup, presumably at the vast expanse of nothingness in which the ship was suspended, “or space?” 

“The latter, Doctor. Where would we build the damn distillery?” 

Ten further minutes of heavy drinking brought the necessary revelation. “Where have you been showering?” McCoy asked. Scotty stuck his tongue into his shot glass to get the last drop of alcohol before answering. 

“In the engine rooms. Better tha’ tracking grease all the way back here. Stupi’ really, makin' me walk all the way back here from the engines.” 

“I’ve been showering in the med-bay for the same reason. Is the bathroom enough space for a still?” 

Scotty considered - both the almost-empty bottle of replicated booze, and McCoy’s question. “Aye. I think it is.” 

“Well, it’s got to be better than this swill.” 

“Aye,” Scotty concurred. “Worth a shot.” 

“Hah,” McCoy scoffed in appreciation of the unintended pun. Scotty didn’t get it.

And the rest was history, and the crew of the Enterprise thanked the gods - not  _those_ gods (god help them),  _generic_  gods - that their CMO and Chief Engineer hadn’t requisitioned another bathroom after the Narada shitstorm.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Scotty designed and operated the still using McCoy’s medical-grade supplies in his spare time. McCoy defended their shared bathroom with the tenacity of a rabid hypo-wielding wolf, from anyone who dared question the legality of the still.
> 
> (That means you, Spock.)


End file.
